


Petty Catharsis, Sequel.

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Series: Petty Catharsis [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Caught, Coming Untouched, Crack, Dacryphilia, Draco suffers, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, First Time, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied Theo Nott/Voldemort, Light Dom/sub, Lucius suffers, M/M, Making Love, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, POV Outsider, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Relationship, Severus wants to die, Sexual Humor, Size Kink, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-01-24 01:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21330190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: The sequel toPetty Catharsis.The days after that first night were the hardest -- literally and figuratively. He wanted, hewanted, just a few more days until they could meet again --
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Petty Catharsis [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537702
Comments: 93
Kudos: 855
Collections: Tomarrymort Live Writes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arualiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arualiaa/gifts), [Tabala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabala/gifts), [Inqk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inqk/gifts), [wulcanbiology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wulcanbiology/gifts), [skittykitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittykitty/gifts).

> Sweet Salazar, I should have posted this ages ago.

_ "Run along to Hogwarts now... or stumble, as it were. I shall be seeing you again... very soon." _

Thank Merlin his voice didn't betray him; the Dark Lord was perilously close to losing his composure when he Disapparated. While Harry dragged himself back to Hogwarts, Voldemort collapsed onto the bed in his chambers and cast off his robes with a blast of magic, covered his face with a pillow, and screamed.

_ What had he just done?! _

Sweet Salazar, every inch of that boy must have been catered exactly to his tastes -- he hadn't even seen Potter fully nude, yet, and he found he couldn't wait. The way his nemesis _ looked _at him, the way he'd gone to his knees feverish with the desire to please him --

And. The way he'd taken him in his mouth so readily. _ Oh Merlin. _ No one had _ ever _done that on the first try.

_ Beautiful, _ Harry had said, breathless, and moved to put his mouth on him.

There had been so little urge in this new body for physical acts, since his resurrection, that Voldemort had nearly worried it lacked the function. Now, he ached in the most pleasurable of ways, just _ remembering _what had just happened. He groaned into the pillow, reaching to take himself in hand.

He sank into a meditative trance, stroking himself slowly as he used his perfect recall to bring up every sensation of Harry's mouth around him; every enthusiastic minute of that experience. Every _ moan _ the boy had made around him, when he stroked his cheek, tugged at his hair, _ praised him. _

Before he could climax just from the memory, Voldemort stopped, breathing harshly in the dark room. "You've done so well," he murmured into the pillow, reliving. Harry had. He'd done _ so _ well. To borrow a word he hadn't used in a long time: _ fuck. _

And then.

"Climb into my lap, Harry," he murmured, rephrasing the question as an order. (Because he knew Harry _ would. _ He _ had.) _

Oh. Oh _ Salazar, _ the sounds the boy made then. That _ gasp, _ alone, was making his cock twitch.

Harry Potter, golden child of the Light, had never experimented beyond the most basic of acts. had never -- _ "nngh." _ \-- had never even _ fingered _himself before. He'd... he'd shied away from Voldemort's fingers, thinking the Dark Lord was about to --

Was about to --

_ to plunge deep into that tight hole without preparing him, and hear him scream in agony and clench mercilessly around his cock, oh yes, yes, that would have been the greatest thing -- _

_ "Feels weird," _Harry had groaned, instead, as he took each finger so well, trembling like a leaf in Voldemort's lap.

He bit down on the pillow to muffle his snarl, toes curling against the sheets, as he brought himself right to the edge again and stopped. Voldemort would not rush the reenactment, would not come until his boy did.

The first touch to Harry's prostate, the way it had sent him into a convulsion, squeezing Voldemort's fingers -- the way he'd _ cried, _ the more he pleasured him, _ "please, I can't --" _

_ Please I can't please I can't please I can't _ he would never tire of that trio of words, so strained, so desperate.

He'd been so good for him. "Remember this feeling," Voldemort groaned. "It will be even better when I -- hah -- when I take you." (He'd wanted so badly to take him right then, not to wait, not to tease. Whatever had stayed his hand was not here in his imagination.)

Harry had _ screamed _for him, had come apart with utter ecstasy writ upon his face -- Voldemort was coming, again, spilling onto his hand, his stomach, with a low moan into the pillow that sounded particularly obscene even to his own ears.

He flung the spit-sodden pillow off the bed and lay gasping for breath, chest heaving in the aftermath of his orgasm. This. This was something he'd gone without for far too long. How had he forgotten how good it was?

Voldemort didn't bother to clean himself up. He let his mind slip into slumber without moving a muscle, and if he dreamed, he did not remember.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Every time Harry let his mind wander it was going back to Room Thirteen. To the way he'd knelt and swallowed that massive, perfect cock, not even caring that it belonged to his mortal enemy. To the feeling of Dark Lord's hand in his hair. To the --

"Harry, mate, seriously, wake up already. History's over, we're going to dinner." Ron snapped him out of his reverie for the third or fourth time that day. "You've been spacing out a lot lately. Are you all right?"

_ Very good, Harry, _ the memory of Voldemort purred in his ear.

Harry went very red. "Yes, I'm alright. Erm. I need to use the loo. Don't wait up for me." Thank Merlin for loose-fitting robes and an unpopular toilet near the History of Magic classroom, because Harry's erection wasn't going anywhere on its own.

Nobody was present to notice his 'situation' in the corridors; nor was anyone there in the loo when he bolted into the stall furthest from the door and sank down against the stone wall, dropping his satched against the door. Harry hurried to unfasten his belt and tug down his tenting trousers and pants. Godric, he hadn't even touched himself and he was this hard?

_ Lean forward, _ the memory told him, and Harry took a wide stance, bracing himself against the wall with one arm, holding the other hand up in front of him. What had Voldemort said? "...Oleum," Harry whispered, and in a blink, his fingers were slick with that same warm oil. His cock twitched, interested, at the sight.

His legs were shaking already, but Harry refused to let himself crumple into a heap until he finished. He grunted, reaching around to slide his fingers over his arse and slather the ring of muscle there in conjured oil.

_ I'll tell you how to do this to yourself... _ He slipped his fingertip in, just a little, and bit back a groan. It would only feel weird until he found that spot again; he just had to open himself up a bit...

_ ...so you can get used to it... _ Harry rocked his hips back onto his finger, panting as he slid in the second beside it. In retrospect, it would've been best to use a bed for this; but he wouldn't have made it all the way to Gryffindor Tower in his earlier state, and especially not now.

_ ...before our next meeting. _ He scissored his fingers, stretching open to fit the third in, and then --

_ "Sweet Salazar," _ Harry gasped, knees buckling. "That's good, it's so good --" he muttered under his breath, eyes rolling back. Even the lightest of touches to the firm little bundle right there was electrifying him.

_ So good it hurts, is it not? _

"More," Harry moaned, "more --"

_ You're close, aren't you, Harry? _

"I'm gonna --"

_ You've been so good for me today. _

_ "Oh --" _

_ Remember this feeling. _

"I can't --"

_ It will be even better when I take you. _

Harry threw his head back, pressing his cheek against the stone wall. His cock was weeping sticky, clear precome. _ "Please," _ he sobbed.

_ What a lovely sight you make. _ Harry pressed hard on his prostate and moaned again, louder, lips moving to mouth the Dark Lord's name.

_ It will be even better when I deflower you, _ Voldemort's voice promised.

Harry came, clenching around his fingers without meaning to. The wall, the floor, the discarded clothes at his ankles -- all spattered with white. When his vision stopped being blurry around the edges, he wiped his hand on his leg and cast Evanesco several times, blinking away the spots.

Then, eventually dressed, he staggered to the sink to wash his face.

Six more days until the next Hogsmeade weekend. He could do this.

Harry could not do this.

He'd actually penned a letter begging Voldemort to _ come fuck him immediately, he needed it _ so bad, _ please -- _ and burnt it, vanishing the ashes. Twice.

Now it was Thursday, and Harry was more desperate than he'd ever been for anything in his life. He snuck out of the Tower after curfew under the Cloak, leaving Ron a note that he'd be in the Room of Requirement in the morning so please cover for him, and took the passage underneath the Whomping Willow to get to the Shrieking Shack.

Once there, safely outside of Hogwarts' wards (and wasn't that a thought), he cast his Patronus, which flickered a bit with his conflicting emotions, and hissed a message to Voldemort in Parseltongue. The stag, its antlers a bit spikier than usual at a glance, faded through the wall; he hoped it would send the message properly.

(He could only imagine what it would be like if the message were translated to English, and someone else was in the room when Voldemort received it.)

Now, he just needed to Apparate through this wall, and he'd be out. What had the Apparition teacher been telling them? Determination, Destination, something else -- three Ds. Harry knew he wanted _ one _ D, very badly. If he could just get _ outside, _ literally four feet to his left -- it couldn't be much different from the incident with the roof, years ago --

He spun on his heel and felt as if he were floating in darkness, moving in a rush of wind. When he opened his eyes, he was leaning against the other side of the Shrieking Shack. _ Yes, _ he'd done it!

Compared to getting out of Hogwarts, getting into Hogsmeade was a walk in the park, and yet every step he took, running down the hill to the outskirts of the village with his cloak fluttering in the breeze, his stomach clenched, nerves warring with need.

Several feet from the Hog's Head, Harry realized he'd forgotten to change out of his school robes. Could he just... sneak in? Under the Cloak? He didn't have enough skill at Transfiguring clothing to prevent himself from losing his robes entirely in the process.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long before a large wizard threw the door open, giving Harry an opportunity to slip into the bar behind him and sneak over to the stairs with no one the wiser. Room Thirteen was just upstairs, now -- Harry swallowed thickly, trying to control himself. What if Voldemort hadn't gotten his Patronus? What if he hadn't arrived yet? What if he wasn't going to bother --

A tall figure in a grey hooded cloak opened the door to the Hog's Head and drew several Galleons from his sleeve, setting them on the counter in front of Aberforth. "Room thirteen, for the night," the man huffed, sounding... out of breath.

Harry's stomach jumped. He was _ here. _

Voldemort -- it must be Voldemort, Harry was certain of it -- ascended the staircase at such a pace he might well be gliding; Harry stayed close behind him under the Cloak. At the door, the Dark Lord rolled his shoulders, leaning against the frame with the key in his hand, and muttered to himself, "...better get here soon... can't wait much longer."

He unlocked the door and entered the room in a flash, closing the door behind him. Harry bit his lip, weak in the knees. Now he had to open the door...

Voldemort was a practiced liar of the highest sort, and yet he would not have believed himself for a minute had he said he wasn't counting down the days until the date of the next 'meeting' in the Hog's Head. Who could blame him, really, when the first had been so productive?

He wasn't the only one driven to distraction, either -- that much was obvious enough, when he found himself drawn into the boy's mind whenever he retired to his chambers. Harry... Harry was _ desperate. _

The Dark Lord might have been facilitating their connection a bit in hopes of getting more out of it. _ Might _ have been savoring every sound that came out of Harry's mouth as he fucked himself on his fingers, coming untouched every time. Was _ certainly _getting stirred up by the way the boy had begun to moan his name when he came, as if he knew -- or wished -- the Dark Lord were there with him.

So when the gleaming silver shape of a stag Patronus materialized into his office late Thursday night, just as he was getting ready to reach for Harry's mind again, he was almost prepared for it.

It wasn't quite a stag, though, he noticed in the first few seconds. Harry's Patronus had been documented in detail by those servants and spies who had seen it in combat already -- and this one was different. Vaguely frightening. Its antlers were thorny, pointed, angled to _ impale, _ and its eyes were the slits of a viper's. When it opened its mouth to deliver its message, Voldemort saw, only partly surprised, that it had a forked tongue and a row of gleaming fangs akin to a Basilisk.

Prey turned predator. A beast of inverted nature.

_ "I can't wait any longer," _ the Patronus hissed in Harry's voice. _ "It's driving me mad. Fuck me, _ please, _ I need it -- Room Thirteen." _

He was left reeling with the intensity of the lust that plea invoked, when the stag faded away. A lesser wizard could have Splinched himself Apparating with such haste to Hogsmeade from the opposite side of the country.

"Room thirteen, for the night," he told the barkeep, overpaying for it (he would overpay a hundred times as much if he'd been asked to) and ascending the steps in a fervor.

"Harry'd better get here soon," he murmured, pausing for breath at the door. "I can't wait much longer."

He had only just gotten into the room and begun to ward it when the door opened again, seemingly on its own. Voldemort had cast off his cloak already; he froze, surprised, and interrupted his spellwork to aim a Stunner at the doorway.

_ "-- fuck wait it's me --" _ hissed a voice, nearly slamming the door in the haste to close it. With a sound like the shifting of fabric, Potter emerged from underneath an invisibility cloak, wild-eyed. Ah, that made more sense.

They stood there a moment, watching each other. Harry had neglected to change out of his school robes; he was leaning back against the wall, red-faced and disheveled. The green in his eyes had been reduced to a narrow ring around wide, lust-dilated pupils. He was breathing heavily just looking at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord didn't hesitate in crossing the room and trapping Harry there, looming over him; not when he was rewarded with the boy's breath hitching like that, with the quiet hissed 'yes' that escaped his lips.

_ "Harry," _ he breathed, _ "it is so good to see you." _

He tangled the fingers of one hand in the boy's hair and pulled, tilting his head back, to claim those reddened lips with his own.

Harry hadn't kissed anyone like this before. Had, at best, considered the whole experience 'wet' in an unattractive way. Now he knew he'd just been -- kissing the wrong person, before.

(Ironic, wasn't it?)

He groaned into the Dark Lord's mouth, shuddering at the heat of the invading tongue and the grip Voldemort had gotten on his hair, and lifted trembling hands to the front of the man's robes, clutching for balance. If this was what kissing was supposed to be like, he'd been misled. They certainly didn't show snogging in the mags.

Merlin, he needed _ more. _ Harry wrapped his arms around Voldemort's waist, taking a more aggressive approach now. Voldemort tasted like both wine and grapes, sweet and tart and faintly alcoholic; Harry had no idea what _his_ mouth tasted like, but soon they would probably taste the same.

Harry suppressed a whine as Voldemort pulled his mouth away -- _ "Haven't finished... warding the room," _ the Dark Lord gasped out, clearly as reluctant to part as Harry was. _ "Can't skimp on... security... wait a moment longer --" _

So engrossed had he been in the sensation of lips and tongue and teeth against his own, Harry hadn't realized how much he'd needed to breathe, but now that he had free access to air again, he nodded dazedly through shuddering breaths of his own, supporting himself just barely on shaking legs. _ "Where do you... want me?" _he panted, looking around the room. The chairs from before were still there, by the fire; but now Harry took notice of the rest of the room, where before he'd been utterly distracted by the Dark Lord's presence and not even thought about it.

There was a large bed on the opposite side of the room, for example, with large pillows and dark sheets; Harry worried his lip between his teeth, thinking about what they might do there.

Because he had come here to be fucked, and he hadn't forgotten _ that _, no matter how pleasurable snogging had been.

Voldemort, it seemed, agreed. _ "The bed." _

_ The bed, _ he'd said, not at all prepared for the sight Harry made sitting at the end of it, still fully clothed, with his hands in his lap and his lip in his teeth. How he could still look so innocent with that pretty red mouth and that flush on his cheeks, Voldemort didn't know. Perhaps Harry would _ always _look innocent, even after he'd taken that from him.

Even after he'd been inside him, seen and felt the honey-sweetness of his ecstasy -- tasted the salt of his tears, of his skin, the faint bitterness of his ejaculate --

Voldemort resolved to set up a wardstone for this, for the next time, so he would not have to make them wait while he cast the necessary spells. It was agony to wait, to restrain himself, when he had Harry _ right there, _ watching him with such desire in his eyes.

Finally, _ finally, _ the last spell was in place, and the Dark Lord could say and do the things he wanted to so badly. He pocketed his wand, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension of his vigorous spellcasting, and took several steps toward the bed, loosening his tie and shedding clothes layer by layer. Harry was visibly entranced by each movement, hands coming up to fumble at the knot of his school tie; he gazed open-mouthed at the expanse of bare chest exposed as Voldemort unbuttoned his shirt with a gesture, shrugging it off entirely in his haste to feel Harry's skin against his own.

_ "I have longed for this," _ he confessed, unbuckling his belt. He stood over Harry now, the fire casting his shadow dramatically over the boy and the bed. His nemesis had angled his head up to look at him, utterly failing to undress himself and seemingly having forgotten the task at all.

_ "Me too," _ Harry breathed, _ "I've been unable to think of anything else." _ He worried the tie between his fingers and blinked, realizing his lack of progress. _ "Will you, um, will you undress me?" _He blushed again, averting his gaze down to Voldemort's crotch, and bit his lip at the sight of tented, damp fabric.

Voldemort leaned in, trailing his hand down the side of Harry's neck. It drew a shudder and a gasp from the boy, and he could feel the way his pulse raced under his skin at the touch. It was tempting, so tempting, to just Banish Harry's clothes off entirely -- but no, he restrained himself again, because the expressions that crossed his face as the Dark Lord gently took off each layer by hand, that growing impatience, were a far richer reward.

And when he got to Harry's trousers, the way Harry stiffened, flinched, the way his breath stuttered at the brush of knuckles against his stomach --_ sublime. _ He was _ nervous, _ again; he laid a hand on the Dark Lord's forearm, stilling his movements, and undid the trouser buttons himself, tugging the material down over the curve of his arse. "I'm," Harry panted, slipping out of Parseltongue in the heat of the moment, "I've been imagining this and... I've been lying the other way. How do you... how do you want me?"

_ Every way, _ Voldemort thought immediately. _ "Either way," _ he said aloud. _ "I had envisioned you on your back, first, however, that I might take you in my mouth. Would you like that, Harry?" _

_ "Oh," _ his boy gasped, shifting on the bed. "I hadn't even thought of that. Ah... okay, I'll climb up..?"

_ "Allow me," _ Voldemort purred, lifting Harry bodily and moving him up into the middle of the bed. He tugged off his shoes, his socks, his trousers. The pants left underneath were washed-out white; it was such a contrast with the rest of his garments that the Dark Lord almost laughed. _ "Remind me," _ he murmured thoughtfully, hooking a finger under the waistband, _ "to buy you black silk underwear, later." _

_ "I'd -- never be able to wear it,” _ Harry gasped, watching the last of his clothing be dragged slowly down to expose him. _ "Mmh, I'd get distracted knowing where it came from." _ He lifted his hips, facilitating the stripping-away of the garment, and Voldemort pulled it off without further ado, relishing how the boy spread his legs once they were freed of the fabric.

He slid a hand up one leg, kissing up Harry's thigh; the scrape of his teeth over the soft skin was intoxicating for both of them, going by Harry's soft sounds. He pressed his face into the crease at the juncture of leg and hip, breathing deeply of his boy, and savoring the way it made Harry moan again, pawing ineffectually at the back of his head. "Oh," Harry breathed, "I --"

_ "Do you remember," _ Voldemort spoke against his skin, tasting the clean sweat gathered so near Harry's most sensitive places with the end of his forked tongue, _ "what you said to me, when you first glimpsed my cock in person?" _ He heard the way Harry exhaled sharply at the vulgar word, felt the way his erection twitched where it lay against his cheek.

_ "Beautiful," _ the Dark Lord quoted, and moved to take Harry down to the root in one motion, swallowing around the boy's throbbing member without hesitating. Harry's toes curled, and he fisted his hands in the sheets, groaning as if pained. It was easy, so easy, to do this to him, to wreck him with only his mouth -- wordlessly, Voldemort conjured oil in his free hand, reaching to slick up the ring of muscle as he pleasured him.

Harry's back arched at the intrusion; it was easier, Voldemort noticed with relish, to penetrate him digitally than it had been the first time. He pulled off of Harry's cock, licking at the bead of precome welling up on the end, to smile at him. _ "I see you've been practicing as I suggested." _

_ "I have," _ Harry groaned, _ "I've been -- fucking myself on my fingers, ah, like you told me to --" _

Voldemort's forked tongue licked a stripe up his shaft, teasing one tip into the slit on the head. Harry made a sound like a shriek, thighs tensing. _ "Don't -- I'll -- I'll come," _ he cried, _ "oh please --" _

Working him open now with his finger, the Dark Lord didn't reply, and most certainly didn't oblige the boy's request not to wring him dry. He slipped the second finger in just in time to brush up against Harry's prostate. Harry let out an obscene, intensely erotic noise, arching off the bed as he came, and the Dark Lord continued to stretch him through his orgasm, enjoying every second of his boy's reactions while he swallowed down every spurt from his cock.

_ "Such a good boy you are," _ he purred, _ "preparing yourself for me every day as though I might appear and fill you right then." _ Harry moaned, throwing an arm over his face. _ "And I would have, too," _ he added, slipping the third finger inside. _ "You would have been so tight for me..." _

Bless his refractory period, Harry was already plumping up again. _ "Please," _ he sobbed, _ "fuck me, fuck me, put it in --" _

And damned if that didn't make his cock twitch with interest more than anything else he'd done so far. _ "All right," _ the Dark Lord agreed, pulling his fingers out and spelling them clean. _ "I will." _

_ I will, _ said that voice, low with lust. The two words struck Harry like a gong -- _ I will I will I will _ ** _I will_ ** _ . _ He curled his toes into the sheets, gone taut with the intensity of his renewed need. How was it that he could come, and then want this even more than before?

Weight shifted on the mattress around him now, hands pressing down at either side of Harry's waist, knees digging in below his arse. _ "Harry," _ Voldemort murmured, just as the blunt, broad head of that cock slicked against his oiled, sticky hole. It was so _ big _, he could already feel it just from the head.

He'd just come, but his erection was almost fully hard again with anticipation. And...

_ "I'm scared," _ Harry admitted in a quiet voice, shuddering as it pressed against, into him, little by little. His breath was coming faster, nails digging into the sheets. _ "I'm scared it's too big it won't fit _ ** _please_ ** _ \--" _

The Dark Lord shushed him, running one hand up his thigh. _ "I'll take care of you, Harry," _ he promised, breath hot against Harry's skin, and the insistent pressure continued, slowly, so slowly, coaxing its way in.

Oh, his boy was shaking in his arms, now, gone tense the minute he began to slide into him. The Dark Lord sighed happily against Harry's neck, waiting for the moment to push in deeper. _ "Relax, Harry," _ he breathed in his ear, _ "I'll fill you up so nicely. You'll be so good and tight for me, yes..." _

_ "Ah," _ his boy gasped, trying so valiantly to let him in. Voldemort knew he could have taken his time, opened him up with one more finger, but _ it had been Harry who asked him to fuck him, _ hadn't it?

_ "You asked me," _ the Dark Lord reminded him. _ "You asked me, so you'll take it, won't you?" _

As if in answer, Harry let out a little sob and relaxed again, just enough that he could ease himself in a little more. _ "Hurts," _ his boy gasped, _ "so big, please --" _

_ "Yes... that's right," _ he groaned, watching Harry's face with satisfaction as he worked his way in deeper, shallow thrusts in and out to slick his way. _ "You're just the right fit, Harry. Ah, yes... I did so enjoy seeing you come apart in my arms last week. And this will be... even... better." _

And he pulled out a little, adjusted his angle, and thrust in again --

Harry arched his back with a shout, legs coming up to cross ankles behind the Dark Lord's waist. He was a _ sight, _ like this, a fever dream -- open mouth gasping for air. Voldemort moved his arm away from his face so he could see the way his boy strained and thrashed, threw his head back, moaned and begged as he continued to fuck him open.

_ "I could take my time with you," _ the Dark Lord supposed, rolling his hips in just such a way as to get his boy's hands on his shoulders, his insides tightening just right around the intrusion. _ "Oh... I could have you for hours, Harry, what do you think?" _

_ "I..." _ Nails dug into his shoulderblades, clinging, and he was almost all the way in now, very nearly. _ "I can't... ah! Can't wait so lo-ong --" _

_ "Mm." _ He leaned closer, pressing his mouth up against Harry's ear, and confessed, _ "Neither can I." _

Then he was there, in to the hilt, his boy squirming and pulsating around him like he'd been made for it, and for just a moment, the Dark Lord went silent, merely breathed deeply through the sensation, the utter completion he'd been waiting for. _ "Oh darling," _ Voldemort breathed, and _ that _ had Harry moving just right, gasping, _ "oh my darling boy --" _

_ "V --" _ Harry convulsed, breath hitching in a sob. Sweet Salazar, he was so perfect. The Dark Lord shivered, closing his eyes against the intensity of his pleasure.

_ "You can say it, Harry," _ he moaned, pressing a kiss to the juncture of his head and neck, just under his ear. _ "Do you like it? Do you feel me inside you, Harry?" _

He hadn't touched his boy's erection at all since bringing him off the first time; and Harry was even harder now, he could see, sticky lines of precome dripping off the end of his shiny pink cockhead and onto the puddle formed in the hollow of his navel, glistening invitingly.

_ "I like it," _ Harry cried, _ "I love it, please, I --" _

_ "What do you need, darling?" _ the Dark Lord asked against his skin, dragging himself halfway out to rub against Harry's prostate a little more. The broken sob it earned him was so wonderful.

_ "F-fuck me, take me," _ came the plea. _ "V-Voldemort, please --" _

Pleasure coiled deep in his gut, heat pooling like lava underneath his skin. _ "Oh, yes," _ he gasped. _ "Yes, my Harry, I _ ** _will_ ** _ \--" _

There was nothing that could have stopped him, then. The Dark Lord paid no mind to composure any longer as he pulled out nearly all the way and thrust in hard and deep, faster, harder, chasing the edge of that cliff. It was him and his boy, him and Harry, yes, _ "Harry," _ he growled, _ "Harry --" _

_ "Yes," _ his boy was shouting, _ "Please -- more -- more -- _ ** _my lord_ ** _ \--" _

Oh, that did it. Voldemort hissed something without words, hips stuttering, and dug his teeth into Harry's shoulder. His boy _ screamed _, clenching around him so tight, flooding the space between them with white, and the Dark Lord followed him, spilling deep inside Harry with a gasp.

He was sure that, if he had not been on top, he would likely have blacked out for a moment. The moment of his release seemed to stretch out endlessly before him, until he remembered how to breathe. Now, with the snapping of that taut rope between them, Voldemort found himself utterly exhausted, and pulled out of Harry with a satisfied sigh before lying down on the bed beside him. They lay together, sweaty and sticky with fluids, and attempted to catch their breath.

_ "That was," _ Harry attempted to say between gasps, _ "that was so good." _

_ "It was," _ the Dark Lord agreed. _ "Very good." _

They laid there for some time, just resting, and ultimately, fell asleep before they could work up the energy to go again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the additional tags.

Something was going on with Harry.

Ginny noticed, even if the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio were too wrapped up in each other to see it. She wasn't Harry's sort-of-girlfriend for nothing.

He'd been glancing up from his plate when the morning post arrived, as if he were expecting something. It wasn't close enough to any birthdays or holidays to be a gift, and if he were waiting on something Order-related, it wouldn't arrive by post at all.

More than that, though, was the fact that Harry had been going to Hogsmeade without her, two weekends in a row already, and coming back with a spring in his step. The second time, he'd even looked a bit pinker than usual. That was when Ginny had begun to suspect her sort-of-boyfriend of being... adventurous, and not telling her.

Coming from Harry, that was a bit weird.

Worryingly so, one might say.

So, the third weekend the Boy-Who-Lived begged off a Hogsmeade date, she tailed him -- all the way to the Hog's Head on the edge of town, which only made Ginny more suspicious.  _ Nobody  _ went to the Hog's Head without some kind of unhealthy hobby in mind. Drinking, gambling,  _ private meetings... _ No wonder he hadn't worn his school robes. (And here she'd thought, rather optimistically, he was trying to develop a fashion sense.)

Although, now she thought of it,  _ was  _ Harry going there to drink? He didn't like the Three Broomsticks' busy atmosphere, Ginny knew, and the Hog's Head barkeeper was rumored to overlook the age limit for a few extra Sickles if you kept your head down. It would explain the flush on his skin, and the easy way Harry smiled at her if their eyes met, when he came back from the village.

When Harry didn't emerge from the inn for more than an hour, Ginny grew tired of lurking outside. So she took off her school scarf, drew up the hood of her worn greyish cloak, and went in to look for herself. If Harry had taken up a corner seat or something, secluding himself away, she wouldn't complain so long as he watched his intake.

Except, Harry was nowhere to be found in the pub, either.  _ No way, _ Ginny thought,  _ where'd he go?  _ She ordered a Butterbeer, ignoring the barkeep's inquisitive look, and took up a spot along the wall from which to scan the room. Was Harry... disguised, maybe? There were plenty of people with fully-body robes, here; it was weirder to be uncovered, in a place like this.

Just when she figured she was wasting her time trying to spot him, and ought to go back to the high street, Ginny's eyes caught on a rickety staircase that hadn't been there the last time she'd looked. (Had it?) And -- there was Harry, descending the steps, more than (she checked her watch) two hours after he'd disappeared into this place. His cheeks were flushed rosy pink, a lazy grin on his face as he sauntered over to the counter.  _ Good Godric, _ Ginny thought,  _ he really  _ ** _is _ ** _ seeing someone, isn't he? _

She noticed, about the same time, that Harry wasn't dressed to leave. He must have left his cloak  _ upstairs. _ Ginny resisted the urge to move closer to the bar for better eavesdropping -- fortunately, she could hear just fine the way he leaned against the bar and requested, in a  _ hoarse voice,  _ oh Circe, "three bottles of sparkling water and two more bottles of that Spanish red, for Room Thirteen, please."

By the way the bartender simply nodded, placing the bottles in an ice bowl, it was obvious that whoever Harry was meeting with upstairs was already of age.  _ So it's an older witch, _ Ginny thought, shuddering.  _ I can't believe him. _

A few minutes after her leaning-toward-ex-boyfriend (something about all this was really giving Ginny a bad feeling she couldn't place) returned upstairs, floating the wine and water ahead of him, Ginny got up from her chair and followed. Room Thirteen, was it?

The bartender didn't even try to stop her.

Apparently, the hidden second floor of the pub was all private rooms. Thirteen was the very last of them on the left, its room number engraved on a dusty plaque on the wood of the door; yellow wall sconces cast the hallway in warm, dim light, one beside each door. Ginny tapped her wand on the top of her head, wrinkling her nose at the cold-egg sensation of Disillusionment, and crouched down at the door to feed an Extendable Ear underneath just far enough to listen.

In a perfect world, she would learn just enough about whatever woman Harry was meeting with to confront him about it and have an amicable breakup before they returned to Hogsmeade. In a perfect world, she'd recognize the woman immediately as some seventh-year with a flair for the dramatic, or a recent graduate Harry hadn't wanted to mention. (Tonks, maybe?)

This was not a perfect world.

"...Oh,  _ please," _ Harry gasped, louder and more wanton than Ginny had ever heard him be with her. "That's -- unh, I can't --" It sounded like furniture was shifting against the wooden floor. "Ahh!" Quieter, but equally distinctive, were the wet noises indicative of a  _ very  _ enthusiastic blowjob.

Ginny was nearly tempted to barge in and confront him immediately -- the famous Prewett rage wasn't just a myth -- but she listened, instead, with a growing heat on her own cheeks, as her probably-ex-boyfriend let out an almost pornographic moan, the kind she'd always hoped he might make.

(Speaking frankly, that had been one way in which Harry had never quite managed to satisfy her; that it was brought out  _ now,  _ when she had no chance of being the source, rather stung.)

Which presented Ginny with something of a quandary: to keep listening, or not to? The quick decision in favor of listening came from the more devious part of her nature, Ginny supposed; she wasn't  _ usually  _ a voyeur, she justified, and everything in moderation...

_ If I'm going to break up with him anyway, I may as well savor the moment while it lasts.  _ This Ginny told herself, while she lay on her belly next to the door, assuredly out of sight in case it somehow opened, and carefully turned up the volume on the Extendable Ear. _ May as well. _

She rather regretted it not thirty seconds later, when the mysterious woman pulled off Harry's cock, and spoke.

_ Correction, _ Ginny thought weakly,  _ mysterious  _ ** _man_ ** _ . _

"You've been so good for me, Harry," murmured a voice like honey, so quietly she could imagine it against his thigh. "If you're ready, I think I'll let you come, now."

_ "Not yet," _ Harry groaned, and sweet Circe he sounded  _ wrecked, _ "Please -- put it in me, I  _ need _ it --"

Ginny might have gasped, a little.

"Need, Harry?" The man, definitely an older man, Ginny had no idea how old, teased. "You were so afraid last week, that I thought you'd never ask again." Trousers unzipping.  _ Merlin. _ "I wouldn't have wanted to... force you."

A whine escaped Harry's lips at the suggestion. "I was  _ wrong," _ he cried, "I need it, please,  _ please fuck me, _ force me, make me --  _ aah!" _

"So  _ wanton, _ Harry," the man purred. He didn't sound like honey, Ginny corrected, he sounded like utter sin. "I suppose I'll just have to give you what you want. Go get on the bed."

Ginny found her mouth had gone rather dry, her stomach rather tight. She wasn't sure she wanted to listen anymore.

She made no move to get up from the floor, though, as the two men moved to the bed, which squeaked a bit under the weight until the stranger murmured a spell. A soft 'thump'; Ginny envisioned Harry being pushed onto the bed with a bit more force than necessary, in a mutual urgency that brooked no argument.

"Hands and knees, Harry," the man ordered in that unfairly hot voice. Harry must have complied, because there shortly after came a low chuckle and the dry slide of skin-upon-skin, a hand running over Harry's back, or legs, or arse, she imagined.

Harry's sighed, "Yes, sir," was an erotic awakening Ginny had not been ready to have. She promptly filed that away for later perusal; there were a few boys around the castle that might be interested in exploring it with her.

For all that she was personally very aroused, Ginny retained the presence of mind to wonder just  _ why _ this man's voice was sounding increasingly familiar as time went on. He didn't speak much for a bit, the room instead being filled with wet noises and Harry's lewd cries; it was long enough to get distracted from the scene just beyond the door, and try to piece together where she'd heard it before.

"Just  _ give _ it to me already," Harry begged, breathless. "I need, I need your cock inside me --"

(Merlin, he was  _ such _ a cockslut, Ginny had never thought she'd say that about Harry Bloody Potter but --)

"You're not ready," the man answered, "unless you're saying you  _ want _ this to hurt..."

_ "Hurt me," _ came the desperate demand. "I don't care, I just want you --  _ ah!" _

The man's voice was strained when he spoke again, and Ginny imagined, with especial vividness, that he was fucking into Harry now, one long slow push. It would explain her ex-boyfriend's strangled cries, if he were. "Don't wish for more than you can take,  _ boy," _ he hissed; Harry's gasp sounded like it was muffled in the bedsheets. "I'll have you how I want to have you, you understand?"

_ "Yes," _ Harry sobbed,  _ oh, he was crying, _ Ginny bit her lip at the image, "I understand, sir, please --"

"That's better," the man sighed, and began fucking into Harry in earnest. Ginny was at rapt attention, now, committing to memory every sound she heard as though she'd be quizzed on it later.

Had she not been listening so intently, she might have managed to miss the way Harry's voice caught on a syllable that could have been a name.

"Ss _ ah _ , harder, ah --" Did this man's name start with S? Ginny's eyes went wide, suddenly sickened.  _ Snape? _

But no, it went on like that, as the man obliged Harry's request, and Ginny realized,  _ recognized, _ the hissing.

Parseltongue.

Harry was speaking Parseltongue in bed.

_ "Darling," _ the man groaned, and then  _ he _ was speaking Parseltongue, and --

Ginny's stomach fell.

There was only one other Parselmouth in Britain, wasn't there?

_ Oh my god, _ she thought, completely taken out of the moment.

Harry was fucking Voldemort.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Harry was fucking Voldemort. _

It had been more than three days since Hogsmeade and Ginny still couldn’t get that information out of her head. She’d tried everything short of Obliviate. (She’d even had to beg a Hangover Cure from Seamus Finnigan on the morning after her discovery, having succeeded in getting Firewhiskey from Aberforth but failed in completely blacking out.)

She’d at least managed to avoid Harry without him noticing until this morning; but now, after dinner, her ex was sitting down beside her on the couch in the corner of the Common Room, late at night, with an oblivious beaming smile. “Hey, Gin. Haven’t seen you this week. How’s OWL year treating you?”

Nope. Nope nope nope.

“I can’t do this,” Ginny said aloud, standing up.

Harry was already putting up the usual privacy spell. “Wait, Gin,” he pleaded, confused, “what’s wrong?”

Oh, fuck him and his big earnest eyes --  _ no wait don’t, not now you know where he’s been _ \-- “You want to know what’s  _ wrong _ , Harry?” Ginny thought she might already be shouting, and went still, clenching her fists at her sides. No, she didn’t want to shout. She wanted to be soft-spoken but cutting like the book characters in  _ Ilvermorny Tales _ . With a determined, deep breath, then another -- glaring at Harry all the while -- she tried again.

“What’s  _ wrong,” _ she hissed, “isn’t that you went to Hogsmeade without me, that I could understand.” Harry shrank a little guiltily, but Ginny wasn’t done.

“Wrong is sneaking into the Hog’s Head,” Harry flinched, caught out, and Ginny leaned in closer, looming over him --

“Climbing the stairs,” Harry went pale --

“ _ Sauntering _ into Room Thirteen --”

“I can explain,” Harry croaked, “It’s not what it looked like--”

Ginny smirked. “I didn’t ‘see’  _ anything _ , Harry. But I  _ heard _ \--”

He reared back as if struck, eyes wide and terrified. Ginny leaned even further into his space, uncaring. “It isn’t wrong to like  _ cock _ , Harry,” she told him, lingering on the word to watch him blush in total mortification, “and you sounded like you  _ really liked it, _ you cockslut--”

Harry blushed a deeper red, speechless, that damnably plush mouth opened in shock, and Ginny was going to remember that expression, oh yes --

“But you know what  _ is _ wrong, Harry?” She waited till he nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing in a nervous swallow.

“That it was You-Know-Who,” she finished plainly, leaning back, expression blank.

Harry was attempting to form words, but failing to produce them. Eventually, he gave up trying and stood up from the sofa, walking off to the boys’ staircase without another word.

Ginny watched him go. He hadn’t even tried to deny it once she’d said her piece. She sagged back against the couch, noting that the privacy spell was still in effect; her ex had forgotten to cancel it in his haste to leave. “ _ You’ve been so good for me, Harry _ ,” she quoted under her breath, recalling in quite some detail. “ _ If you’re ready… _ ”

That Ravenclaw a year below might suit the role of Harry in that fantasy, Ginny considered, a somewhat dopey grin spreading across her face without her noticing. (Now if only she could unhear the Parseltongue at the end, and keep the rest of the memory, of Harry  _ begging _ for it, she could fuel hours of fun roleplay with other people…)

Little did the youngest Weasley know, the two days she had spent agonizing over the knowledge of Harry’s little tryst had coincided with one Potions-Master-turned-Defense-Professor’s decision to sweep through the minds of his fifth year students, looking for hints of Dark recruitment. With the subject at the forefront of her thoughts, it had taken terribly little Legilimency for Severus Snape to hear Ginny’s ruminations.

Snape declined to attend dinner that evening. He was still reeling from the very  _ concept _ of what Ginevra Weasley thought she had heard. More than that, he did not wish to allow himself even the opportunity to return to the young witch’s mind and seek more details of that knowledge. There had to be a better way to confirm or deny this… speculation.

And Salazar, he absolutely could not bring this to Albus. Severus wondered which would be worse -- if the Headmaster dismissed the information, or if he didn’t.

Shuddering, he knocked back another shot of cheap Muggle vodka -- no point in Firewhiskey -- and much later in the evening, Flooed into the Headmaster’s office to ‘warn’ Albus of an emergent (fabricated) plot to kidnap Potter from Hogsmeade on the upcoming weekend.

Albus frowned, steepling the fingers of his living and cursed hands. (Severus shuddered at the memory of what the mummified flesh felt like to the touch. The idea repulsed him nearly as much as the real reason for his warning.) The blue eyes that turned to Severus were bright with calculation. “I had hoped Tom would cease going after Harry while Draco’s task remained... at hand. It seems that is not to be.”

_ Was that a pun? _

“The Dark Lord has not sanctioned it,” Severus improved. Technically this was true, as the plan did not exist in order to be sanctioned. “Bellatrix appears to be heading the effort, in order to ‘surprise’ him. She has voiced such wild ideas in the past, you are aware; what is more concerning is that several others have deigned to join her in this mad effort. They plan to remain covert until Potter appears, then capture him by Muggle means and bring him before the Dark Lord that same day.”

The Headmaster considered the information given, idly retrieving a Lemon Drop from the jar to one side of his desk. “Were I to cancel Hogsmeade weekends this month, it would be far too obvious,” he thought aloud. Severus waited for the man to come to his own conclusions. When none were forthcoming, he murmured, “Potter’s individual absence from Hogsmeade would not give anything away, however.”

A pleased smile crossed Albus’ face at the idea. (Privately, Severus thought it darkly ironic that the Headmaster and the Dark Lord had very similar expressions under similar circumstances.) Without further ado, he called Minerva over the Floo and asked her to send Harry to his office. “I have taken an interest in candied plums this season,” Albus added in faux-afterthought.

Severus barely resisted rolling his eyes.

Potter emerged from the moving staircase not ten minutes later, a solemn expression on his face that became a glare when he spotted Severus standing to one side. “Professor Dumbledore, sir,” he greeted, choosing to ignore the Potions Master entirely. (Were they equals, this might have been considered a snub. As it were, Severus found he didn’t care.) “Has something happened?”

Albus related the news of the kidnapping plot without mentioning Severus outright. “It would be best if you chose to remain in the castle this weekend, dear boy.”

Potter’s expression remained carefully blank. “Are we sure the threat is genuine, sir? I, em, had plans.” His cheeks pinked a little.

( _ What kind of plans -- _ Severus stopped himself from wondering.)

“Alas, you will have to find a new reservation at Madam Puddifoot’s,” Albus joked. “Thus thwarted, it is unlikely Bellatrix will have the patience to try again.”

Eventually, Potter nodded. “All right, sir. I’ll go… let her know, I guess. Good night.”

And the boy left. Severus used the Floo to return to his own office -- and had barely made it to the door to his quarters before his Mark began to burn.

He hurried to don his robes and mask, following the summons to the Dark Lord’s throne room. All the while, under layers and layers of Occlumency, gears were turning.

Because, he realized while taking the corridor to the throne room at a brisk pace, this was a rather ill-timed coincidence.

That, or it was no coincidence at all.

The throne loomed at the far end of the hall in the way that it only did, Severus reflected, when the Dark Lord was feeling anger. He kept his gaze fixed respectfully on the floor as he approached; halfway across, he was brought to a halt.

“Severus,” murmured the Dark Lord just loud enough to be heard, “do you know why I have called you here?”

“No, my Lord,” was his answer; because he  _ suspected _ , yes, but did not dare voice his guess aloud. Oh, what Severus would give for this to be entirely unrelated…

“Approach, Severus,” came the order. Then, “Face me.”

For all that Severus could feel the weight of Voldemort’s anger in the very air around them, His expression revealed only mild annoyance. “Why do you  _ believe _ you have been summoned?”

Under His red gaze, there was no opportunity to lie. “Because I have inconvenienced you, my Lord,” Severus answered, monotone.

The Cruciatus that took effect shortly after was no more or less than it ever was, but as Severus fell to his knees, biting his tongue on a scream, he continued to stare at the Dark Lord as he had been ordered to -- and saw the annoyance in His expression thread through with amusement, as when He had an idea.

He ended the curse, leaving Severus trembling involuntarily on the floor, and tapped the end of His wand thoughtfully on His cheek. “How do you suppose you have inconvenienced me, Severus?” Dear Merlin, He sounded almost gleeful.

Severus fought back a curse-induced stammer. “By interfering w-with a planned rendezvous in Hogsmeade this weekend, my Lord.”

Now the Dark Lord was smirking, entertained. “How ever did you learn about  _ that?” _

“Ginevra W-Weasley’s mind, my Lord -- she eavesdropped last w-week--”

Nonexistent eyebrows raised. Voldemort  _ laughed _ . He was about to say something, but then a Patronus burst into the room, cantering merrily up to the throne.

Death Eaters, by and large, could not use Patronus communication; this would have been Severus’ first tip-off that the silvery animal was not bearing a message from one of his fellows, except he recognized the shape of this specter all too well.

Or he thought he did. On second glance, it was not quite a stag, not like Potter’s was. The unnaturally-sharpened antlers and slitted eyes were almost enough fodder for disbelief, but any internalized denial proved fruitless as the Patronus opened its --  _ fanged _ , good Circe -- mouth, and hissed a message to the Dark Lord in Parseltongue.

And there was only one other Parselmouth in Britain besides Lord Voldemort.

The nightmarish stag drew nearer as it spoke, letting the Dark Lord run a hand over its neck, before it dissipated into dust. In the silence that followed, Voldemort’s smirk grew crueller.

“My rendezvous has been rescheduled,” he informed Severus with delight. “For tonight, that is.”  _ Merlin, no. _ “And I have just had an excellent idea for your punishment, Severus.  _ Imperio.” _

Through the haze of the Imperius Curse, Severus distantly registered being disrobed and re-outfitted by the house-elves in less conspicuous clothing. He was Side-Alonged to Hogsmeade, at which point he automatically made a feeble, fruitless struggle against his bonds, and then, following the Dark Lord -- who was, himself, glamoured and cloaked -- into the Hog’s Head, past Aberforth with a nod, and up the stairs to Room Thirteen.

Voldemort dismissed the Imperius once the door was locked, following it with a Body-Bind and  _ Silencio _ so swiftly that Severus’ disoriented eyes could not parse either spell being cast at him. He levitated an armchair over to one corner, so it was next to the bed --  _ the bed _ , Merlin preserve him -- and maneuvered Severus’ body onto it before layering several disguising spells and a Notice-Me-Not over top. “And now, we wait,” came the Dark Lord’s cheerful announcement. He took the other armchair, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, and watched the door, resting his cheek on his hand. “My darling is never far behind.”

True to his word, the door creaked open less than a minute later. Once it closed, the rustling of fabric preceded Potter’s appearance from under the Invisibility Cloak.

He was, Severus observed, still wearing his school robes. As Potter toed off his trainers, he smiled up at the Dark Lord through his lashes. “Would you believe,” the boy began, laughing, “there is a plot to kidnap me on Saturday? Bellatrix, of all people, as the orchestrator -- if rumors are true, I’d be a ‘gift’ for you.”

“A gift,” repeated Voldemort in a tone that Severus recognized, shuddering, as a  _ purr _ . His expression had returned to the smirk worn earlier, lips curving as he looked Potter up and down with a  _ hunger _ . “Quite the faux pas, making a gift of something the receiver already owns, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Potter agreed, breathily, stepping closer to the armchair on black-socked feet. Were it possible, Severus would have flinched at the way the boy went gracefully to his knees, then, as though he had done it a hundred times before. “I would have been here Saturday anyway, of course… but I’m grateful we could meet earlier.”

A pale hand reached to card through Potter’s hair, and Severus’ stomach sank as the boy leaned into it, reaching to unfasten the Dark Lord’s trousers. “May I show you how grateful I am, sir?”

Voldemort pretended to think about it, turning an indulgent smile upon Potter and moving forward in his seat. He let his legs splay out to either side of the boy’s shoulders. “Of course you may, Harry.”

What followed was nearly twenty minutes of torment, and it was only the beginning: immobilized, Severus couldn’t  _ not _ watch as Potter unveiled the Dark Lord’s cock and took it into his mouth. He was in the best (worst) angle to see every moment of what followed: the way the boy serviced Him  _ expertly _ , enthusiastically, with a flush on his cheeks and a faint wetness in his eyes. Oh Merlin. Oh  _ God _ . The eyes.

And the Dark Lord made no efforts to disguise the pleasure He was taking from this. His head was thrown back, eyes nearly closed, fingers twitching and digging into the leather of the chair. He tugged at the knot of His black tie, loosening it, until it was unfastened entirely, then unbuttoned several buttons of His black shirt.

Then, a hitch in His breath.  _ “Harry,” _ he groaned, reaching with one hand to pull on the boy’s hair after all -- and Severus was made witness to the Dark Lord’s orgasm, and the way Potter drank down every drop of His release with a muffled groan of his own. Voldemort blinked a few times when Potter pulled back, lips red and swollen; red eyes glanced over to the corner where Severus sat in frozen audience, and widened.

As if He had forgotten Severus were  _ there _ .

As if He had been so involved in His own pleasure, in Potter’s mouth, that all else had faded to insignificance.

Potter, meanwhile, licked his lips. “Delicious,” he sighed, leaning his cheek on the Dark Lord’s leg.

Then he climbed into Voldemort’s lap, leaning into His chest, and lay his head on the Dark Lord’s shoulder. “I needed that,” was his hoarse admission, eyes closing happily. Then Potter was speaking Parseltongue, which Severus could naturally comprehend none of; the break from human speech gave him time to come to terms with what he had seen -- and what he was currently seeing:

The Boy-Who-Lived and the Dark Lord, entwined comfortably together as lovers.

In some ways, it would have been easier to watch if Potter were being raped. Coerced. Drugged. Resisting. It would have been slightly less easy, but still easier, if Potter were there  _ only _ for sex -- if the exchange of pleasures was merely physical.

But no. The Dark Lord was, perhaps inadvertently, showing Severus a far more painful sight:  _ mutual attachment. _

And then He slid a hand down Potter’s back and tugged the boy’s trousers down to his knees, exposing black silk briefs that clung to Potter’s arse, and Severus could have sobbed -- this was only the beginning.

Cool fingertips stroked over the curve of Harry’s arse, relishing the smooth fabric and warm flesh underneath. Voldemort hummed appreciatively, tracing the bottom edge of the silk where it met his thigh. “Have you been wearing these all day?” he wondered, head turned to speak against Harry’s bare neck. “Or did you put them on just to please me?”

“A bit of both,” Harry hummed, arching his back as a thumb hooked the waistband of his pants and pulled them down a little, fingers exploring the exposed skin. “Mmh -- feels nice. And, ah, I wanted you to see them.”

The Dark Lord’s other hand was inching its way up under his shirt. “You didn’t know we were meeting today,” he pointed out, slipping the pants the rest of the way down to cup Harry’s bare buttock in his hand. He squeezed, just this side of not bruising.

“I -- ah -- I’d hoped,” came the admission, as Harry moved to straddle Voldemort’s lap. He circled his arms around the Dark Lord’s neck, leaning in closer to breathe his scent. His erection, twitching with interest, was already dripping on the black fabric of the older man’s shirt. “It’s been such a… a shitty week…”

Further speech was erased from his mind by the slide of a slickened fingertip down the cleft of his arse, nudging at the ring of muscle hidden between his cheeks. Harry couldn’t help but cant his hips up against the pressure; he’d been thinking about this for days.  _ “Oh,” _ he gasped, “please--”

Voldemort feigned nonchalance as he began to finger his Harry open, enjoying how the boy’s hole gripped each digit, clenching down with the lewdest squelching sound. He purposefully avoided Harry’s prostate in favor of watching him squirm, hearing his breathing hitch, feeling his arms tense and relax where they coiled about his shoulders. “What has stressed you so, my darling? Is it Defense Against the Dark Arts, again?”

He flicked a glance toward the corner where Snape sat, though he had made it so that he could not see the man -- else his erection might flag -- just as Harry began to fuck himself earnestly on his fingers.

“He’s such a, ah, bastard,” Harry complained between bitten-off moans. “I’d be --  _ ah, right there _ \-- straight Os in that class if it were anyone else grading.  _ Fuck _ , please, more --”

Voldemort pulled his fingers out of Harry, instead hefting him up in both hands. “Would you believe, I once applied for the post myself?” It was three strides to cross the room to the bed; he laid Harry down on the sheets, then stood back to admire his work.

Harry was still wearing his shirt, but it was rucked up nearly to his nipples, most buttons undone. The rest of him was bared, flushed a lovely pink, and better, his legs were splayed out, showing off the reddened, throbbing prick that had been dripping heat onto Voldemort’s shirt. The Dark Lord smiled down at his boy from where he stood at the end of the bed, stripping off said shirt and flinging it carelessly onto the floor.

“If you were my teacher, sir,” his Harry panted, drinking in every inch of the skin Voldemort exposed as he stripped, “I’d be so distracted in class, I’d have barely made it to NEWTs.” A giggle. “‘Professor Riddle,  _ please _ ,’” he begged in a put-upon voice, “‘isn’t there  _ anything _ I can do to raise my grade--?”

Voldemort fixed him with a leer. “Study,” he replied, climbing up onto the bed to stifle Harry’s laughter in a consuming kiss. He Vanished Harry’s shirt rather than fiddle with it -- easier to buy the boy a new one -- pinning Harry’s wrists over his head with one hand while the other summoned a pillow to prop up his hips.

“On the contrary,” he disagreed, “you’d be my  _ star pupil _ . Always visiting my office for  _ extra lessons.” _ He planted a trail of kisses down Harry’s chest. “With extra incentive for every perfect score…”

Harry moaned, shifting on the bed. “Have I -- ah -- earned my reward, Professor?”

Voldemort made a show of considering it, looking Harry up and down, for only a moment before succumbing to his desires. “I believe you have,” he agreed, lining up the head of his cock to press just the tip into Harry’s tight, wet arse. “After all, you’ve been so good for me…”

He rested on his elbows, leaning in, and began to push in deep, relishing the way Harry’s legs immediately wrapped around his waist. “Yesss… that’ss it.”

There was no clock in the room to tell Severus how long this had gone on; only the fireplace, burning as steadily as it had minutes before, clearly charmed, and the chairs, and the  _ bed _ , the bed less than two feet from him, where Potter was now moaning and writhing underneath the Dark Lord in obvious ecstasy.

When, he wondered, would this punishment be over? Just then, the Body-Bind wavered: Voldemort was, apparently, sufficiently  _ distracted _ by his activities to lose some control over the spell, though not the others -- the hazy quality of the air in front of Severus which marked the layers of concealing spells had not changed.

“Did you know, Harry,” the Dark Lord panted, “earlier this week, I sensed someone --  _ eavesdropping _ on us, while you were begging me to make you hurt? While you pled and moaned like the most expensive rentboy a wizard can buy?”

_ “Fuck,” _ Potter moaned, throwing his head back against the pillows. “R-really? Or are you just saying that to --  _ tease _ me?”

Voldemort was, quite literally, pounding the boy into the mattress, eyes narrowed with pleasure. “Oh, yes,” he promised, “they made the mistake of Disillusioning themselves, of course, and I sensed the magic in use. Who do you suppose it might have been? Lying on the floor to listen under our door?”

“A corpse, now, maybe,” Potter guessed, stealing a kiss from the Dark Lord’s open mouth.

“I thought of killing them,” Voldemort growled, propping up Potter’s legs on his shoulders to great effect. “But then -- you’ve always liked being watched, haven’t you, my Harry?”

“Yours,” moaned Potter, “only yours --”

“All mine,” the Dark Lord agreed. “Though you’d like it, wouldn’t you? Forcing my Death Eaters to watch while I satisfy myself in your bloody tight arse--”

“I  _ would _ ,” Potter’s toes curled, “I would, you can have me however you like -- my  _ Lord _ \--”

Severus sucked in a silent gasp at the title. He had been trying to distance himself from the proceedings, again, to no avail; all he could see were Lily’s eyes, rolling back in pleasure; Lily’s eyes, pupils blown wide with lust; Lily’s eyes, looking into the Dark Lord’s, as Potter dug his nails into Voldemort’s shoulder blades and rolled his hips to meet every thrust.

“My darling,” the Dark Lord groaned, “Harry, Harry,  _ come _ for me, for your lord,  _ do it--” _

Potter arched his back, gasping out something in Parseltongue.  _ “Voldemort,” _ he cried in English, “I’m--”

And Severus saw the Dark Lord’s hips stuttering as he ground in deep, spilling into the boy with a hiss of his own. Potter’s limbs fell to the bed, gone slack, his head turned in Severus’ direction as he took in deep breaths of air. Voldemort sighed, pleased, and pulled out of him with an obscene wet sound; he Vanished the mess with a lazy hand gesture and lay down on the far side of the bed, an arm slung around Potter’s shoulders. He spoke more of the serpents’ tongue, tracing a finger down the center line of Potter’s torso, and pulled the boy in for another kiss at whatever the reply was.

“Tempus,” Potter yawned when they next broke for air. It was nearly midnight, three hours after Severus had been summoned. “Mm… I’ve got to go back to the castle soon.”

“Slytherins don’t have curfew,” Voldemort suggested. “Just spell your robes green and silver and steal a spare bedroom.” He slid his hand down Potter’s side, petting him, and tangled one long leg between Potter’s. Severus had never pictured the Dark Lord as a cuddler.

“I could--” Potter yawned again -- “could sneak into the old goat’s office, and let the Hat Sort me into Slytherin like it keeps offering, and get a permanent room.”

The Dark Lord chuckled. (Severus had never seen him so carefree with his happiness.) “More Slytherin of you to simply take it without asking.” He lifted the arm slung around Potter’s waist to Summon the clothes strewn about the room. “Why, I could even disguise myself and join you.”

_ Pillow talk, _ Severus told himself.  _ It’s just pillow talk -- he wouldn’t really -- _

(Because that would be a  _ disaster _ .)

“You’ll give Slughorn and Dumbledore heart attacks,” Potter smiled. “I can’t say I’m opposed.” He stretched, tugging on pants, trousers, and socks. “Oh, my shirt’s gone,” he sighed dramatically. “What ever shall I do?” A grin. “Stay here instead, to save myself the embarrassment?”

Voldemort chuckled again, summoning his own shirt from the floor. “Magic, of course,” he answered, shrinking it to fit.

“One day I’ll get to wear your shirt and  _ only _ your shirt,” Potter purred. He got up on shaky legs, stumbling toward the door for his shoes. “I’ll send a Patronus about Saturday,” he added over his shoulder, reaching for his invisibility cloak. “Maybe we  _ can _ …” he trailed off, smiling, and pulled the cloak back over himself, disappearing entirely from view. “Well. See you later,  _ my lord _ .”

“Good night, Harry,” Voldemort replied, sinking back into the pillows. The door opened and closed, and now He and Severus were alone.

Almost immediately, the Dark Lord’s expression returned to its usual disdainful restraint. He summoned His cloak over from the hook by the door, and retrieved another shirt from one of its pockets. “Did you enjoy the  _ show _ , Severus?” Fortunately, the Potions Master was spared from answering by another Imperius. Trapped within his own mind a while longer, Severus Snape resolved to weep in the privacy of his own quarters, when he was finally allowed to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: winter hols, or, Draco Malfoy's dreadful month.


	4. Draco Malfoy's Dreadful Month.

In the days that followed, Severus could not even  _ look _ at Harry Potter without becoming nauseated. He informed Albus of a potions experiment in need of tending in order to excuse himself from meals in the Great Hall - and averted his eyes and ears from Potter whenever his sixth-year classes went on.

The boy, whenever Severus did have to acknowledge his existence, said nothing to him to hint at things; he truly seemed to have no idea Severus had been made to witness the events of that awful night. All that he gleaned in the next few days, gleaning bits of the truth from gossip, was that Ginevra had confessed her knowledge of the previous tryst, and the two had had a falling-out.

Nothing changed in Potter's class performance or general behavior, regardless of what he might be (was) doing on weekends; and so Severus put the matter from his mind, as best he could, and drank when he couldn't.

He should have known the tentative peace wouldn't last.

Students went home for the winter holiday. This meant Severus went to Malfoy Manor for Yule and New Year observances and whatever Death Eater business occurred between those two dates, distributing sobriety potions to the others as needed. Albus already knew he would be out-of-contact, deep undercover as a spy as Severus was; this was why the news of Harry Potter disappearing from the Burrow on New Years' Eve did not reach the Potions Master until Potter himself did.

Which is to say, the Death Eater meeting of December 31, 1996 was interrupted by the arrival of one messy-haired wizard, emerging from the door at the far end of the hall with Severus' sheepish godson trailing behind him.

Malfoy Manor had never been so frightening in Draco's memory as it was in the past two years, shrouded in the Dark Lord's presence. The atmosphere shifted with His mercurial moods, darting between rage and sadistic delight and the slow chill of the Dark Lord's brooding over the war.

Still, his Mother and Father worked hard to ensure Yule proceeded as usual - and the shadow of fear that hung over the Manor at all hours almost seemed to recede when the festivities began, so that the first half of winter hols wasn't terribly different from how it had been when Draco was young - at times, things even touched on joyful.

This lasted until New Year's Eve.

The Dark Lord called a meeting in the late hours of the night, summarizing the past six months' work and directing broad strategy for the next quarter. Draco listened from outside the door; the Dark Lord had ordered him to guard it, against what, Draco had no bloody idea. He stared at the clock on the far wall, zoning in and out while muffled voices discussed the Ministry and the Order and so on.

He jolted out of his daze at midnight, not only because the clock he was staring at chimed for the turn of the hour, but because a house-elf rushed up to him, squeaking that a guest had arrived for 'the Dark Lordsy' and was being guided to Draco by a second elf at that very moment.

Draco dismissed the elf in front of him, wrinkling his nose at the tarnished rag it wore as an apron, and listened as footsteps made their way closer, a house-elf chattering in its squeaky voice as it guided the visitor. "..dangerous for the Great Harry Potter Sir-"

_ Wait, what? _

Draco stiffened, wand clenched tight in his fist, and glared in disbelief as, yes, that was  _ Potter _ in his family's ancestral hall, his full attention on the house-elf,  _ smiling _ at the wretched thing as he attempted to convince it that "I appreciate the concern, Libby, but I'm here to see him, there's no need to worry."

Shaking, the elf - Libby, whatever - squeaked that it hoped Potter would survive, something about him being the 'savior of house-elves' that Draco would mock him for if he weren't so shocked to see him in the first place, and disappeared back to wherever it belonged in the Manor, leaving a cheerful Gryffindor menace standing yards from Draco. (He had no right being cheerful. Even  _ Draco _ couldn't be cheerful! And it was  _ his house!) _

"Malfoy," the other boy greeted cordially, almost warmly; he wore a close-lipped, gentle smile, green eyes lighting upon Draco without a hint of their usual rivalry. "Happy New Year. I'm here to see the Dark Lord, if you'll let me through."

"Potter," Draco spat. "How dare you show your face-"

Potter waved a hand.  _ Dismissed _ him. His smile had become a grin. "Oh, Malfoy, can't you tell he's  _ expecting _ me? Why else would you be guarding a door in the middle of this beautiful fortress of an estate?"

The compliment in the middle of that threw Draco off a bit. He realized Potter had a point. And if he was wrong, well, the entire Inner Circle was inside; someone would surely get rid of him. "Fine," he said, going to the door. "If you insist on going to your death, I won't stop you."

Potter drew down the hood of his black cloak, threw Draco another blinding smile, and let him open the door.

Chatter from within cut off abruptly at Potter's appearance in the doorway. Draco followed behind, closing the door, and watched as the Death Eaters sat in stunned silence. Potter ignored all of them; he was still smiling as he swept past the long table and stood before the throne.

"Harry," Voldemort greeted. Was it just Draco or did the atmosphere just shift from 'brooding' to 'joy'?

Potter  _ bowed. _ "Sir," he answered, slightly breathless, straightening up again. He dared to step  _ closer _ to the throne, resting a hand on the arm of the chair. "My lord."

The Dark Lord smiled indulgently. Patted his thigh.

And Potter climbed into his lap; leaned back against Voldemort's chest. His next words: incomprehensible hissing.

Oh, right. Draco had somehow forgotten Potter spoke Parseltongue.

No one spoke. Draco's godfather looked like he was going to throw up. Aunt Bella was gripping the metal goblet in her hand so tightly it began to bend.

The Dark Lord murmured something in the ear of the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Gatecrash-Malfoy-Manor, and Potter turned bright red. Draco felt abruptly like he was intruding on something he wasn't meant to see. Then: "Those not residing at the Manor are dismissed until next week's meeting."

_ Thank Merlin, _ thought Draco, before he realized he wasn't in the dismissed group.

When attendance was down to just the Death Eaters left in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort pulled Potter flush against him and trailed a possessive hand down the boy's chest. "Harry will be in residence through the end of the holiday," the Dark Lord informed them.

Potter shifted in the chair, giggling as one pale hand hooked a thumb under his trousers' waistband.

"My lord," Lucius inquired, "the dungeons-"

"No," Voldemort chuckled.  _ Chuckled. _ "Harry will be in my quarters, where he belongs." And he slid his hand down further to palm the front of Potter's trousers - eliciting a soft noise from the Gryffindor's mouth that Draco desperately wished he could unhear. "He is to be treated as a guest."

Potter hissed something, biting his lip.

The Dark Lord's mouth curved in a smirk. "Dismissed," he said, not looking up to see if they listened.

As he all but fled the room, Draco tried to ignore the distinctive  _ thud _ of a body hitting the long table behind him - or the delighted gasp that echoed against the walls.

"Ah,  _ yes-" _

Draco liked to think he'd have turned Potter away at the door if he'd known letting him in would lead to this much noise.

He'd gotten well used to the screams of pain from tortured Muggles and Cruciated wizards at this end of the house; much as they'd grated on his ears, Draco now sorely wished he could have them back.

Instead, he had to hear Potter and the Dark Lord fucking. Just, all the bloody time. It unnerved him a bit to realize the Dark Lord must have no refractory period at all, the way they Just. Kept. At It.

"How many rooms are in the Manor?" Potter asked him the afternoon of New Year’s Day, standing on shaking legs in the library with only a black bedsheet wrapped around him.

"Two hundred twelve," Draco had answered automatically.

Potter wrote some calculations on a slip of parchment, and nodded at it, chewing the end of his quill. "Seven or eight a day then," he murmured to himself. "Thanks!"

That night, Draco found them in his bed.

The Dark Lord didn't see him, but Potter did, and offered Draco a smug grin. Draco opened his mouth to shriek, but realized there was nothing he could do to stop them.

He slept in guest quarters for the rest of the holiday.

It quickly became apparent that Potter's goal was not to traumatize Draco - at least, not specifically - but for the Dark Lord and Potter to shag in every single room of the Manor before winter hols were over. As it seemed there were no intended repeats, Draco was soon able to occupy the library for much of the day, and - after a thorough decontamination - brew in the dungeon labs. The house-elves seemed almost happy to have the  _ mess _ to clean up after, day after day, which was rather disturbing, but it wasn't nearly as disturbing as having to see Potter at meals.

The lap-sitting wasn't a one-time thing. Potter let the Dark Lord  _ feed him. _ On several occasions he wasn't even fully dressed.

(Aunt Bella didn't show up for meals beyond the third day, secluding herself in her rooms. On the fifth day, in a move of strategic brilliance and - if Draco remembered correctly about the fate of Sirius Black - petty vengeance, Potter chose those rooms for the evening.)

The second-to-last day of hols, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise joined Draco in the most isolated sitting room of the Manor for tea. Pansy, ever attentive, noticed the shadows under Draco's eyes within seconds of sitting down. "What's wrong, Draco?" she asked, leaning on his arm. "Is it... Him?"

Sighing, Draco shook his head. "No, not really, it's.. never mind. I'm sure we'll be fine here." Surely these rooms had already been made use of earlier in the month?

Of bloody  _ course _ that moment was when the doorknob turned, and Potter snuck in, not yet looking into the room but at the hallway behind him. He'd have been completely unobtrusive except that he was wearing only a bright red length of fabric, draped over his body so as to barely preserve his modesty, given how much skin was otherwise visible.

Draco's head whipped around to glare at him so fast he heard his neck crack. "Damn it, Potter," he swore, "I picked the most remote room in the Manor and you've still shown up?" Hell, if his eyes didn't deceive him, Potter was - was  _ oiled _ like a Greek wrestler, everywhere except his feet.

"Shh," the Boy-Who-Buggered insisted, pressing his back to the wall. (A house-elf was going to have to clean that.) "We're playing hide-and-seek." He grinned at the closed door, beginning to back into a corner.

"Since when are  _ you _ here, Potter?" Pansy sneered. "When the Dark Lord finds you-"

Potter's wide-eyed handwaving at her shrill voice was cut off by the door opening again. "Why, Miss Parkinson," said a darkly amused voice from the empty doorway, "that is precisely the point."

Black-sleeved arms appeared out of nowhere to seize Potter's nearly-nude form and drag him out of the room, to the boy's delighted laughter. Draco's guests stared, flabbergasted, at the door left ajar; they glanced between themselves, flinching when the next sound that reached their room was a pornographic moan.

Pansy choked. "They're seriously-?"

Draco nodded, wiping wearily at his brow with a conjured handkerchief. "Constantly," he complained.

"What does Potter see in.. well, that?" Pansy's voice reduced to a whisper.

Blaise's expression turned thoughtful, dark eyes staring at the door. "Well, those cheekbones  _ are-" _

"Surely not," Pansy protested, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Well, it's got to be  _ something," _ Blaise insisted-

"Ah, yes,  _ yes, _ so big-"

Theo went a vivid red, his mouth dropping open in a little 'o'. An hour later, he excused himself to the bathroom for a moment and then didn't reappear. Draco thought his friend had just run away - Blaise and Pansy eventually left as well, and Draco went downstairs for dinner a while after that.

Seeing Theo emerge, dishevelled, from an unoccupied guestroom of the Manor the following morning, rubbing at his lower back with a small smile on his face - Draco thought he ought to have been more surprised, but really, he wasn't.

Draco's suffering, however, had nothing on that of  _ Lucius _ Malfoy.

The Malfoy patriarch had begun to ration his supply of Calming Draught on the fourth day of Harry Potter's occupation of the Manor, when Severus visited his office to discuss the.. situation, and revealed that it had been going on for a considerable amount of time while the Potions Master was unable to reveal it to anyone else.

"He's - he's  _ Draco's _ age," Lucius sputtered, fumbling for a wine glass with shaking hands, "and the Dark Lord is my  _ father's _ age." Draining the glass, he accepted a Stomach-Soothing potion from Severus and opened another wine bottle to chase it.

Severus nodded, resignation all too present in his haunted eyes. "No one would condone this," he agreed, "and yet.."

"No one can stop it," Lucius agreed, face in his hands. "How long before-?"

_ Before Draco is targeted? _

He shuddered. Surely not. Surely the Dark Lord's madness would never extend..

Severus assured him of the same, and they commiserated through the night, hiding behind the heavy soundproofing until the sun rose.

Meanwhile, the Dark Lord and Potter continued to indulge their lust on every surface they could reasonably get away with - when one was restricted not by a need for privacy or an ounce of common sense, that was nearly everywhere - and Lucius proceeded to catch them in all manner of places:

The dining room table, in the middle of the night - that had actually been a reasonable location;

On the balcony off of the Dark Lord's quarters, conveniently visible to anyone who wandered through the courtyard below;

In the kitchen, where - according to a somewhat distressed house-elf - Potter had been attempting to bake the Dark Lord a birthday cake, the frosting of which had now gone everywhere except the cake;

In Lucius' study, because one or both of them certainly lived to make Lucius suffer (it was Potter's idea, he just knew it);

On the grand staircase in the middle of the day, because they couldn't make three more steps to the nearest bedroom, apparently;

In the orangery in the middle of the day, knowing full well that Lucius and his team of Death Eaters had intended to take tea in there that afternoon;

And occasionally, just for the novelty of it, Lucius thought -  _ in the Dark Lord's actual quarters, _ away from prying eyes.

The way the boy limped around the Manor in his free time - the Dark Lord had pencilled  _ 'Harry Potter' _ into his appointment books between three p.m. and two a.m., Lucius saw one day - the blond wizard almost wondered if Voldemort was trying to kill him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, this fic really is porn without plot. More explicit smut to come in the next chapters ♥ such as:
> 
> \- A Top!Harry Surprise,  
\- Theo Nott's Terrific Night,  
\- Tom Riddle Returns to Hogwarts,  
\- and A Murder Attempt on Albus Dumbledore via Induced Stroke
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying the start of summer (or winter!) - with how many of my bookmarks got updated this week, I know I am.


End file.
